


Blood Buzz

by rufflefeather



Category: Merlin (TV), True Blood
Genre: Blood Play, Crossover, Dubious Consent, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-07
Updated: 2012-03-07
Packaged: 2017-11-01 14:47:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufflefeather/pseuds/rufflefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt - Crossover, Arthur/Merlin, Eric Northman/Merlin, Trueblood. One evening, Eric Northman arrives in Camelot. His reputation precedes him, he's known for succeeding in many of the quests, always at night, a condition preventing him from exposing himself to sunlight. Eric is drawn to Merlin, fascinated, and he can feel that the boy is special, he craves tasting his blood.<br/>When he brings Uther an inestimable artifact back from a quest, Uther in return tells him he can ask for anything. Eric asks for Merlin.</p><p>Disclaimer: If both Merlin and Eric Northman were mine, I'd die happy. Sadly, they are not.<br/>________________________________</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Buzz

He can already taste it.  
  
Almost.  
  
Someone quite special between these castle walls. Maybe it is the prince-boy he watched earlier from the shadows when the sun was sinking beyond the lake and the boy slid off his horse which such graze he could nearly be mistaken for one of Eric’s own kind.  
  
Nearly.  
  
If it wasn’t for the way his skin glowed with the health and heat that only comes with warm, pumping blood. Yes, Eric could begin to imagine how the boy would taste, of sweat and sunlight, power too, by the looks of him; shoulders straight, chin lifted, eyes calm and confident as he threw his reins at the servant boy. Pity it would be considered bad form to kill the son of the King he is visiting. But maybe he could seduce the boy. Yes. His eyes narrow a little and a small smile curls around his lips as he remembers the stretch of the boy’s neck and how it was cut off by that hard jawline. Maybe he could.  
  
He tries not to be bored as he listens to the King - Uther? - welcome him, _tales of your courage precede you, an honor to count you amongst our guests tonight._ Always the same, but even - or especially - someone who lives as long as he does, needs money. So he travels, sometimes far, always alone, fulfilling quests beyond the capability of mortal men and is paid handsomely for it. Mostly in gold, sometimes, when discretions allows, in blood. He doubts this possessive and frightened King will allow him a taste of the boy’s - Arthur? - blood. He realizes his eyes are on the prince when his solid gaze is met with narrowed eyes and a questioning eyebrow raised in arrogance but also interest. He is about to look away, about to pay attention to what the Pendragon King is saying, when a movement behind Arthur catches his eye.  
  
No more than a mismatched mixture of lines and features, of angles and clumsiness and yet.  
  
Yet.  
One glimpse into those eyes, blue and endless in depth, and Eric realizes he is already glamouring the boy - servant? - or trying to at least. The boy is narrowing his eyes too, in amusing and oblivious mimicry of his master, but he is not dragged into Eric’s pull. A frown draws the dark eyebrows together, Eric can see it, the movement slow and defined to his heightened senses and it almost makes him smile. The boy knows something is off, he is worried for his master but not himself, judging by the way his eyes dart briefly toward the prince and back to Eric, but he remains unaffected. The vacant expression of subservience that always takes possession of his victims’ features remains absent. Only one kind can withstand his lure.  
  
Sorcerer.  
  
Well well.  
  
He allows his lips to curl into the smallest of smiles, allows his eyes to say _I know what you are_ , before he turns his attention back to the pompous King.  
  
‘Of course, quarters have been arranged below the castle, bearing in mind your eh, condition’, Uther tells him, with an awkward dart of his eyes toward the moonlight where it spills red and yellow through the stained glass window.  
  
Eric is about to thank the King, to take his leave, to roam the night for prey, but the boy’s eyes widen slightly before narrowing once again, determined.  
  
 _I will find out what you are._  
  
The jerk of Eric’s chin is unnoticeable to anyone, it betrays only to himself the surprise of the voice in his mind, the words forming a promise devoid of the instinctive fear other humans feel in his presence. The jolt in the pit of his stomach has nothing to do with surprise at all.  
  
*  
  
Eric’s eyes wander over her face. She is pretty in a gentle way, with the soft curls a dark halo framing her head and the thick eyelashes casting fluttering shadows beneath the candle light. Her body is limp in his arms but the pulse still beats, albeit slowly, in her veins. Not for the first time, Eric feels reluctant to kill. He doesn’t even need to restrain himself anymore, doesn’t need to feed until the heartbeat is too weak to sustain life. It is a whim, it is a risk, it is exhilarating, the thought alone, so he does it. He licks her neck, closing the puncture wounds almost instantly, savouring the lingering flavor of her remarkably sweet blood one last time, the lust still warm beneath his bellybutton, and cups her face with one hand.  
  
‘Open your eyes,’ Eric tells her, softening his own. ‘Look at me.’ The eyelids flutter, once, twice, before they blink open, revealing the cocoa colored irises. ‘You will remember nothing. Not ever. We never met. Tomorrow morning you will think you are coming down with a cold and that is why you feel a little weak. Do you understand?’ Her mouth opens, but she has to swallow before the word is audible. ‘Yes.’  
  
‘Good,’ he says. ‘You did good, you are lovely.’ He lifts her up unto the bed, tucked away in the corner of the cottage he followed her into. ‘I feel a little lightheaded,’ she tells him.  
  
‘Yes, that’s all right,’ he coos, stroking her face, drawing the covers up to her chin. ‘Nothing to worry about, just sleep. Okay? Just sleep.’  
  
Her eyelids flutter closed and she is about to drift off when he asks her, ‘What is your name?’. She sighs, and for a moment he thinks she is too far gone to hear him but then she blinks her eyes open again, surprisingly awake and kind.  
  
‘Guinevere, but my friends call me Gwen.’  
  
*  
  
His tongue flickers over the edge of his fangs before they retract. He breathes in the night air, feeling almost warm, full with the blood of the girl - Guinevere -, a different kind of hunger throbbing between his temples as well as his thighs. The night is still young, he still could find a willing pageboy or servant girl. He doesn’t have to resort to the glamour to find a willing victim for _that_. He knows both men and women find him attractive and he has taken full advantage of this over the years. But now, now all he sees is slightly curling black hair and blue eyes, deep and knowing. All he hears is the voice in his mind, _I will find out what you are._  
  
Yes, he thinks, maybe you will. And he smiles. He will wait, for this boy who should not mean a thing to Eric, but does anyway. Who shouldn’t be appealing with his gangly limbs and sharp angles, but is. There seems to be a bond between the boy and the prince and he wonders if they are lovers. The jolt in his stomach returns and he manages, barely, to examine it with cool detachment and recognize it for what it is.  
  
Jealousy.  
  
*  
  
  
‘I don’t think you should go.’ Merlin fingers the buckle of the hauberk even though it is already done up.  
  
‘What are you on about Merlin,’ Arthur asks him. Merlin can almost hear the eye roll behind the comment and goes to stand in front of his prince so he can fix the clasp of his cloak.  
  
‘Merlin,’ Arthur says, dipping his head in an attempt to catch his gaze. ‘Why do you think I shouldn’t go this time?’  
  
 _Because he can tell I am a sorcerer even though we never met_ , Merlin thinks. ‘Because he looks at you funny,’ Merlin says. ‘Like- like you are something to eat.’  
  
Arthur lets out a huff of a smile, it is hot against Merlin’s hand. It turns into a laugh, the kind that knocks back Arthur’s head and exposes his throat. ‘Merlin,’ he says again when he straightens and is done laughing.  
  
If Merlin didn’t know any better he would suspect Arthur of liking to say his name. ‘Yes?’  
  
‘You, are an idiot.’  
  
Good thing he does know better. ‘Well I am coming with you then.’  
  
An eyebrow arches high. ‘Like you have a choice.’ But the eyes are kind and the smile is sort of different, softer and directed toward Merlin’s back as he turns to gather Arthur’s sword and helmet.  
  
‘I don’t understand why the King wants this cup so badly,’ Merlin says, pushing his arms through his jacket and following Arthur who is already half way through the door.  
  
‘It’s the cup of life,’ Arthur tells him, when he catches up, as if that explains it all.  
  
‘It’s not as if he can use it,’ Merlin mumbles, quickly adding, ‘I mean, you need magic, right?’ upon seeing the expression on Arthur’s face.  
  
‘Well, yes. But if _we_ have it, it means _no one else_ can lay their hands on it,’ Arthur says.  
  
And that, well, it does make sense. Sort of.  
  
‘But why do we have to do this at night?’  
  
The elbow to his ribs doesn’t hurt, but it says all the things Arthur doesn’t, (afraid of the dark Merlin? Afraid the evil beasties might come to get you?) as he explains about the strange “condition”. Merlin has heard it all before. Allergic to sunlight and whatnot. He just wishes he could tell Arthur they don’t need that, that _man_ , that tall, menacing, gorgeous man, to get the cup. He wishes he could tell Arthur he can go find it all by himself and be back before breakfast tomorrow morning, but he can’t. Besides, it would be interesting to learn more about this Eric Northman, who looks like one of the barbarians that have raided their coasts before. Who is said to be the strongest, the bravest, the most fearless-  
  
‘Merlin!’  
  
‘What?’ he demands, almost bumping into Arthur’s horse. ‘Hold my sword while I mount. Seriously, what is wrong with you?’  
  
‘Oh, uh. Okay.’ He grabs hold of the sword and helmet. His eyes roam the courtyard, its cobbles still radiating warmth from the day’s sunlight, but the Northman is nowhere to be seen. He can’t _see_ him. But he can _feel_ him. He can sense the eyes on his back, he can feel them watching, searching him, roaming over him as if they are undressing-.  
  
He swivels around so violently, he almost startles Arthur’s horse, who tuts, swats his head with a glove and pulls the sword out of his hands.  
  
‘Useless,’ he hears him mutter, but he doesn’t look up. Instead he looks at the man, who is avoiding his gaze with a hint of a smile. He is standing just out of reach of the last sun rays, (while Merlin could swear, he could _swear_ he wasn’t there before) inhaling deeply, as if he can smell something in the evening air no one else can. Something wonderful and just beyond his own senses. He should be afraid of him, he knows he should be. So why is he- why is he-, why is he what, exactly? Interested? Intrigued? No. Just, careful. Yes that’s it. He hadn’t liked how the man had stared at Arthur, as if he was _hungry._  
  
*  
  
The sun sets with a final burst of light, as if it tries to cling to the surface of the earth with a last breath.  
  
As if it might never rise again.  
  
The thought makes Merlin shiver, because who, truly, can promise the sun will rise again tomorrow? Who can predict it will be there, will appear and bathe the world in its golden glow again? What other power does it hold that it makes the Northman hide in shadows? What exactly is his weakness? Could he use it against him? Will he ever need to use it? Could Merlin call upon the power of the sun in the middle of the night if he had to? He glances at Arthur, seated in his saddle above him, ordering one of the squires to bring forth the Northman’s horse.  
  
Yes, he thinks, he could if he had to.  
  
For Arthur.  
  
‘Let us hope you won’t have to, then.’  
  
Merlin won’t admit it, later, but he does squeak. The man had approached him silently. And not only that, he had read his mind. Judging by the fleeting, already guarding look in Eric's eyes, that thought disturbs him almost as much as it disturbs Merlin.  
  
‘Wh-,’ Merlin begins, but Arthur interrupts him. ‘You arrived on foot, I understand, so we are providing you with one of our own horses.’ Arthur waits, the Northman inclines his head in acknowledgment, but his eyes never leave Merlin. Arthur frowns a little, before moving his own horse toward Sir Leon and the other knights, who will accompany them on the quest for the cup of life.  
  
The horse is jumpy, pulling on its reins as if it is trying to get away. _Odd_ , Merlin thinks, _it was fine, until-_. His eyes travel between the horse and the man and back again. Eric steps forward then, and stares into the horses eyes. It calms down right in front of the both of them. He can _see_ it, why is no one else watching? Why is Arthur _never_ paying attention when he should be?  
  
‘What are you doing?’ he demands, unable to help himself.  
  
‘Telling the horse not to be afraid.’  
  
‘Why does it think it should be afraid?’  
  
He smirks, the Northman _actually_ smirks, and suddenly he looks young, ridiculously young even, not much older than Merlin. Why hadn’t he noticed those blue eyes before? ‘Do you always ask the wrong questions?’  
  
‘Maybe they are only wrong for you, but the right ones for me.’  
  
‘They could be very wrong for you too, my friend.’ The man leans closer and Merlin feels something pulling behind his breastbone, something warm and fuzzy _trust me, you can trust me, I won’t harm you - I won’t-_  
  
‘I don’t.’  
  
‘What?’ Eric blinks, momentarily confused but already composing himself. ’I won’t trust you,’ Merlin whispers. The man frowns and it is like marble creasing, opens his mouth to say something but Arthur is yelling.  
  
‘Mount up Merlin, we’re leaving.’  
  
*  
  
It’s not that he is afraid of the dark. It’s not, no matter what Arthur says. It’s just, there are all these _sounds_ , these creatures and puffs of wind tickling leaves hidden in the darkness. And it isn’t even that in itself, that is making Merlin nervous, it is the stark contrast with the stillness of Eric beside him.  
  
As if he doesn’t even breathe.  
  
He is too aware of him, he realizes that, but he also realizes there is absolutely nothing he can do about it. He feels it whenever Eric looks at him, and he feels it whenever he looks away. His own eyes betray him, or so he imagines, whenever they travel over the blond hair now tied at the nape of his neck. It seems to shine in the moonlight, just like the nearly translucent skin pulled taunt over the bones of his long, almost female hands. So strange, to see such delicate hands on a man capable of-.  
  
Of what, exactly? Murder? No doubt.  
  
Too aware, too drawn, he thinks. So it is only natural, when the barbarian holds his reins, allows his horse to slow and fall back from the others, that Merlin follows suit. Or it isn’t natural as such, it is _inevitable._ All of it, feels inevitable.  
  
‘Can you always read my mind?’ It isn’t want Merlin means to ask, but he doesn’t know where else to start. _What do you want from me, why are you here, what are you, why? Why?_ He looks at his hands, his horse’s mane, grey and colorless in the night, Arthur’s back, anywhere but Eric.  
  
‘No,’ Eric says softly. ‘Can you?’  
  
‘No,’ Merlin tells him. ‘Only-.’ Only when? When you are paying particular attention to me? He doesn’t say it, doesn’t want to acknowledge what that means, really.  
  
‘That is good.’  
  
‘Is it?’  
  
‘Yes,’ Eric laughs, a gentle breath that drifts on the night and toward Merlin. ‘Very good. For you.’  
  
‘You know what I am.’ Merlin doesn’t quite know what he means by this. It isn’t a question, but it isn’t a warning either.  
  
‘I do. But you do not know what I am.’  
  
‘Not a sorcerer.’ Again not a question.  
  
‘No. Not a sorcerer.’  
  
Finally, finally he looks up and it almost feels like relief to allow himself to take in this unearthly beauty. Eric’s eyes are hooded, dark and too old for his face. His nose is a little crooked, as if it had been broken when he was younger and hadn’t quite healed as it should.  
  
But it is his mouth, that holds Merlin’s attention.  
  
He could call it cruel and it would be the right word to use. It is a mouth that can be thin and mean, hard and cold. But he can tell, he can tell by the way it sometimes almost smiles reluctantly, by the way the lips sometimes part and bend beneath the tongue that darts out and in briefly, that it can be soft and lush and sensual. He is glorious, this man beside him, his beauty almost inhuman. He tries to imagine what he would look like with the sun in his hair, casting a golden glow on his skin, turning his eyes into blue sky rather than dark night, and he finds that he can’t.  
  
‘What is your name?’ Eric asks him, his brow drawing together as if he is annoyed by something. Or not annoyed. Sorrowful. Maybe he heard Merlin’s thoughts, and finds them unbearable.  
  
‘Merlin.’  
  
‘Merlin,’ Eric repeats, jerking his eyes away and nudging his horse forward. The beast answers the command almost before it is issued and it isn’t until Arthur glances over his shoulder, throwing Merlin the wide grin he keeps for moments where he feels unburdened by the impending crown and his father’s presence, that Merlin realizes he had been feeling a little cold.  
  
*  
  
He should have known, really. Apparently, wisdom does not always come with age. Eric laughs, or at least he thinks he does because he is burning. Did the sun rise? Or is it still the cup? The cup of life, and he, quite its opposite. Its antithesis.  
  
For the first time in god knows how many years he has felt something akin to interest in another person. More than interest, a careful combination of delight and fear, feelings almost forgotten. A thirst, nearly overcoming the one that always burns the back of his throat, to know more. More about Merlin. It had started to annoy him, that need to know. _What is your name?_ He never cared before, for no one but his maker and his dead father, who he would avenge. Or not, if the burning was anything to go by.  
  
Even now the regret is more toward the boy and what they could have been. Toward his thoughts and the wish to feel sunlight on his skin one more time, with Merlin by his side. If anyone else had ever given him the impression that they could but guess what was in his mind, he would have killed without a second thought.  
  
He had imagined doing just that. An instinctive reaction of self preservation against someone entering his armored defenses. And the boy wasn’t so much as entering them, but battering against them, crumbling them to dust. He would move with blinding speed.  
  
He had imagined what it would be like to snap that thin neck, those long, tender tendons with one hand, drag the boy - Merlin - off his horse with the other and make it look like an unfortunate accident.  
  
Would the prince care? Probably not. But he, Eric Northman, would. He had imagined it, and it had felt like - a little like he felt right now. Like he was burning up from the inside.  
  
*  
  
‘Just drop it! Why can’t you drop it?’  
  
They had reached the island and Eric had told the group of knights to stay back, to stay behind. The prince had looked worried, like he might protest, but Eric had drawn himself up to his considerable height and fixed the boy with his stare. Merlin had moved forward, as if he had wanted to place himself between them and again the stab of jealously had let itself be known. Arthur had not looked away, but had recognized the authority and nodded. Eric was, after all, a prince in his own right.  
  
The witch they had warned him for was not there. Instead the cup lay abandoned on an altar, knocked over, harmless. So he had been careless, and picked it up, without thinking that cup of life actually means quite literally, life itself in a cup. And now both worlds raged within him, life fighting death.  
  
‘Just let go of it!’  
  
A soothing cool spreads through his veins, starting at the wrist where the cup still rests in his hand. He doesn’t understand until he registers the voice. Merlin. Had he come after him? Had he been worried? Had he cared what happened? Had he understood what Eric himself hadn’t? Is he insane that even in this unbearable state of agony he cares about the boy’s motives?  
  
‘Open your hand!’ the boy is first yelling, then quietly begging. ‘Please. I can’t pry your fingers loose, you are too strong. Just, let go. I’ve got you. Let go.’  
  
*  
  
‘What do you need? Just tell me what you need, quickly, before the others arrive.’  
  
He doesn’t know how, but he must have managed to let go of the cup. He feels the boys arms around him, his back resting against Merlin’s chest. The first tingle of fatigue presses against the back of his eyes, it tells him the sun will rise soon. ‘Blood, I need- your blood.’ The thought of Merlin’s pulse, beating steadily if a little frantically was enough for his fangs to lengthen. He hears the boy gasp, he hears him swallow, he hears the heartbeat pick up speed, and then, he hears him sigh. Merlin holds out his wrist.  
  
‘Drink then,’ he says, ‘quickly.’  
  
Eric can smell the blood beating beneath skin, his hunger and need so pronounced. It smells of iron and heat and something sultry, the way blood always smells. But there is something else too, something that reminds him of hot summer air, heavy with the last bursts of closing flowers. Of the sea and the silty beaches where he played as a child, sand warm and comforting between his toes.  
  
The scent of Magic.  
  
‘Please, hurry.’ Merlin tells him and Eric finds it in him to be amused.  
  
 _If you knew who I really was, would you still help me?_  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
‘Why?’  
  
‘Because I don’t believe you are truly evil. No matter what you have done. Now drink.’  
  
And he does. Merlin can’t not cry out as Eric’s teeth break the fragile skin over the spindly wrist bones, thin like a bird's and for a moment Eric is afraid he might break them. But the yell turns into a gasp and a ‘oh- _oh!_ ’ when he draws on the veins.  
  
Not too much, he mustn’t drink too much but this blood it’s - _Valhalla._ He cringes and would roll his eyes at his own nauseating sentimentality if he wasn’t too busy being overwhelmed by the taste of this boy’s blood and by the way he is pressing against him, moaning, one arm clinging protectively, possessively around Eric’s chest.  
  
Eric feels himself heal and he thinks he can’t stop, almost panics, _I can’t stop,_ when a fist grabs hold of his hair and yanks him back. He lets it, wondering if he has hurt the boy badly when his mouth is assaulted by Merlin’s lips.  
  
He doesn’t have time to fully appreciate the heat of the soft mouth before it is torn away. ‘I’m sorry,’ Merlin pants, his eyes wide in delayed embarrassment. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’  
  
‘Don’t worry,’ Eric tells him, a little breathless himself. ‘It is quite normal. Give me your wrist, I will heal it.’  
  
‘No need.’ Merlin stands, face turned toward the trees, and waves a casual hand over his arm. The bite marks disappear. ‘Handy,’ Eric says, smiling. Damn it, he hasn’t done this much smiling in- well, ever. ‘Here are the others, just- just tell them you killed Nimueh and found me wandering about.’  
  
Eric watches how Merlin picks up the cup, wrapping into a brown cloth before moving toward Arthur. It is easy to see how impulsive the move is, without a second thought Merlin turns to the prince, and Eric marvels at the realization no one else knows.  
  
No one knows about the devotion, the adoration this boy feels for his master.  
  
Not even Arthur.  
  
For a moment he feels the loyalty flow through him, a steady, strong emotion, so deep set it would have taken his breath away if he had a need for oxygen. He knows it is only the blood bond they now share, and it makes him want Merlin all the more.  
  
 _And I will have you._  
  
Merlin turns around, his eyes hooded and heavy, having picked up the thought, guarding his own. Eric can’t tell what he is thinking. He doesn’t know what is more frustrating. The boy’s ability to block him out, or the fact that he wants to know.  
  
*  
  
Arthur glances at Merlin. Again. He’s been doing it a lot over the past hour. They left the island (in a hurry), after accepting the cup from the barbarian who had looked healthier than Arthur had seen him so far. He could appreciate a man livening up from a fight, after all it isn’t every day you get to kill an evil witch. He’d rather have done it himself but he isn’t the kind of person to begrudge someone their glory. Really, he isn’t.  
  
It’s just that the barbarian had looked pleased and Merlin had looked flushed and Arthur hadn’t liked it. One bit.  
  
‘I don’t like it,’ he says.  
  
‘What?’ Merlin looks up from his bedroll, lifting his head, hair sticking out at all the possible (and impossible) odd angles and it makes Arthur want to flatten it.  
  
‘Him. I mean him, not it. The barbarian I mean.’ He shuffles around, trying to get the cloak to cover his feet. He had ordered his men to grab a few hours of rest before the sun would full and truly rise after the barbarian disappeared. Where would he go, he wonders, to hide from the sun during the day? The ruins on the island maybe? He shivers, because dead witch or no, he doesn’t like the place.  
‘Arthur?’  
  
‘What?’ Merlin is looking at him expectantly, like he is waiting for an answer. ‘Oh. Yeah well, I don’t like him.’  
  
‘So you said. But why don’t you like Eric?’  
  
‘I- he-,’ Arthur closes his mouth, frowning. _Eric_. What had Merlin said? _He looks at you like you are something to eat._ Well, he had looked at Merlin exactly like that.  
  
‘I just don’t. Go to sleep Merlin.’ He ignores the laugh Merlin huffs out, ignores the _that’s what I was trying to do before you woke me up,_ and rolls on his side.  
  
Merlin is infuriating and useless and irritates Arthur beyond belief and he pats himself on the shoulder on almost daily basis for keeping him on as manservant _out of the goodness of his royal heart_ for heaven’s sake.  
  
But Merlin is also naive, has no idea how things work in the real world and Arthur has to protect him from- from men who look at Merlin like they would like to know just how his neck curves toward his shoulders beneath that stupid scarf. From men who want to touch that soft hair and learn exactly how it curls above those ridiculous ears and maybe even find out how the skin tastes just beneath them. From men like Eric Northman basically. Men like himself.  
  
They don’t set off again until the sun is already past its zenith (because Merlin, _of course_ it is Merlin, who slows them down, thinking he had lost the cup for a frantic, hair pulling moment until Leon points out it is hanging off Merlin’s saddle bags), so they are still on the road when night sets in.  
  
Arthur had contemplated leaving the Northman’s horse behind, but Merlin assured him it wouldn’t be necessary.  
  
‘Magic?’ he had hissed under his breath, eyes narrowed, but Merlin had smiled.  
  
‘No, he just runs fast. I think.’  
  
‘Right.’ Well, Arthur wasn’t going to be arguing with that and he had himself convinced it wasn’t out of petty jealousy that he agreed so quickly to leave the man behind. But yes, night is setting in and _of course_ that is when they are ambushed, and _of course_ it is when Arthur is already engaging three swordsmen that Merlin finds himself in trouble. And finds himself rescued by the Northman, who comes tearing out of- out of nowhere really.  
  
Arthur doesn’t have time to look, he doesn’t, because a blade rushes past him so close he can hear it whistle and he has to block and parry and shield and stab and by then Merlin is panting, the Northman looming over him, protectively. But still he could have sworn that- no, it isn’t possible -but he could have sworn that the barbarian had leaped six feet off the ground and _bitten_ the attacker. And now he was standing over Merlin like it is his _job_ , like he has this _right_ to protect him, while it is Arthur who-. He shakes his head. They would ride home, the barbarian would ask for his payment - gold no doubt - and would disappear out of their lives.  
  
‘Everyone all right? Good. We are only an hour away from Camelot. Keep your swords out and your head on your shoulders.’  
  
*  
  
‘Merlin!’  
  
Arthur’s voice is loud and panicky and completely unnecessary because Merlin can see the attacker quite clearly for himself, thank you very much.  
  
He thinks he can get away with a bit of magic right now, everyone is so busy saving their own skin. He tilts his head to the left. A burning spell? Or something more subtle. A balled up gush of wind maybe, to knock him back. Yes, that is probably the way to go. No awkward questions about burn marks and far less messy. The man keeps coming with an _aaaarghhlll!!_ and Merlin asks himself why people do that, why they have to make these ridiculous noises when they attack. Maybe it is to give themselves some extra courage, although he doubts this man sees him as particularly threatening. Or maybe it is because they think it makes them look more menacing. Merlin thinks it is a bit - coarse. At least sorcerers have more self respect when casting spells, know better than to go around yelling, spitting and gurgling and pulling faces in a fight. He is lazily lifting a hand, his attacker almost upon him, when the man is literally plucked out of the air. His battle cry is cut off viciously, turns into a wet splutter and it takes Merlin a second to understand what just happened.  
  
Eric isn’t coarse, or loud. He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t brandish swords around and he doesn’t go wild. He is silent and gracious. He is all the more menacing because of it. Like some sort of large cat, stalking prey. His fangs are extended, his mouth is red and dripping with blood, the man discarded and very much dead on the ground. The Northman is standing very close. So close he can smell him, earthy and sweet, the top of Merlin’s head only just reaching his chin.  
  
Eric’s eyes are wide, his nostrils flaring. The sun is still sinking beneath the edge of the world and there is a long, thin burn mark where it has touched Eric’s face. Merlin watches, intently and with a little look of wonder on his face and his slightly parted lips, as the skin knits itself back together. His fingers flutter and he feels the magic heat the back of his irises as the blood evaporates off Eric’s face. He sees him sway forward, the broad shoulders rise and fall, the chest swells, the whites of the eyes show as their lids half close.  
  
 _You didn’t have to save me_ , he thinks. ‘Are you, - sniffing me?’ he asks softly, because he can feel Arthur watching them, unable to keep the slight smile from his mouth.  
  
 _I know. And yes._ Eric’s lip is lifted, but it isn’t in a smile, it is almost a snarl and Merlin frowns. Why is Eric angry?  
  
 _Why are you not afraid?_  
  
His eyes move from Eric to Arthur, who is watching them, also looking mightily unhappy. What is _with_ these guys today?  
  
‘Everyone all right? Good. We are only an hour away from Camelot. Keep your swords out and your head on your shoulders. Merlin, over here, where I can keep an eye on you and the cup.’  
  
Merlin suppresses the urge to roll his eyes but obeys anyway. He sees how Arthur gives Eric a brief nod, more a jerk of his chin really and isn’t sure what passes between them. Eric accepts the nod with a gracious move of his own. A cat. Yes, a fitting comparison.  
  
*  
  
It had been stupid on so many levels, but Eric can’t really find it in himself to care too much.  
  
Risking his hide for a boy who is perfectly capable of taking care of himself, who he doesn’t know, shouldn’t care for. Exposing his greatest weakness - what sunlight does to him - and exposing his true nature. He had expected the boy to cringe away after he had torn the attacker’s throat out. Instead he had cleaned Eric’s face with a magical touch that had felt like a warm caress. Like sunlight on his skin after decades of darkness.  
  
He believes all his actions tonight to be born from weakness, and he considers it weakness now, where he would have considered it a right before, when he hears the King say: ‘Name your price Northman, if there is one for this invaluable service you have rendered us’.  
  
A weakness, when his mouth forms the words ‘the boy’, and his hand rises, finger pointing toward Merlin. He wonders briefly what the possession of the cup of life in the hands of this man would mean, but he knows Merlin will not allow him to have it for long if it means harm to others.  
  
‘No!’ someone yells. It is the prince, and Uther frowns in displeasure.  
  
‘He is just a servant Arthur, compose yourself.’  
  
‘You can’t do this!’ Arthur rises to his feet, ready to challenge Eric, who raises an eyebrow. But Merlin steps forward, his mind open. He wants Eric to read it now, he wants him to know what he is thinking so he knows full well why he is doing this.  
  
‘It’s all right Arthur,’ the boy says softly.  
  
‘Merlin-‘  
  
‘Of course it is all right, how dare you-‘ the King begins, but Merlin is already turning away, eyes on Eric.  
  
 _I am doing this because I don’t want Arthur to fight you. Because I know how it hurts Arthur to oppose his father. I am doing this of my own free will because I don’t want to see him struggle, because I don’t want to make him chose._  
  
Eric hears all of the thoughts, and he feels the pain beneath them because Merlin knows Arthur will think his reasons are very different.  
  
By the look on Arthur’s face, Merlin is right.  
  
Weakness, because he knows all this, and still he wraps his fingers around Merlin’s fragile wrist and leads him out of the throne room.  
  
*  
  
‘Where can we go?’ he is about to ask, but Merlin is already leading him up the stairs. Through one of the windows he sees the moon rising. The night is young, still. The boy opens a door, a bedroom door and Eric stares at the empty, made up bed.  
  
‘That is what you want, isn’t it?’ Merlin asks him, looking at him and holding his gaze when he gives it. He sees the redness creep up the boy’s long neck however, and isn’t fooled by the unwavering eyes.  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
Merlin gently tugs his wrist out of Eric’s grip and closes the door behind them. ‘What are you?’ he asks, as Eric knew he would, back leaning against the door.  
  
‘I am a night walker, a blood drinker.’  
  
 _Vampire._  
  
Merlin nods, as if he expected the answer but still says, ‘But blood drinkers belong in fairytales. In legends.’  
  
‘Maybe one day that will be where we both belong. But for now, here we are.’ Eric spreads out a hand and Merlin nods again. Suddenly he wants, he wants this boy with every fiber of his being but it isn’t enough, he wants Merlin to want him back.  
  
‘I can give you everything,’ he whispers, hating the plea in his voice. _The world, the night, the strength, all the lives you ever craved_. ‘I only want one night.’  
  
‘I only want one life,’ Merlin tells him, eyes soft.  
  
‘With Arthur.’  
  
‘With Arthur.’ Merlin pushes himself away from the door and steps closer.  
  
‘Even if he never loves you back.’ Eric can smell Merlin. Husky, magical, alive.  
  
‘Even-‘ Merlin swallows, Eric sees the apple of his throat bob up and down, can feel the sting behind those eyes as if they are his own.  
  
 _Even then._  
  
A hand comes up, rest against Eric’s cheek. Eric’s eyes close, he leans into it. The warmth it is so-  
  
‘You feel cold.’  
  
Eric nods.  
  
‘Because you are dead really, aren’t you?’  
  
Eric nods again, the palm fits so perfectly against his face he wishes for the first time since Godric took his life that breathing could be something he has to do, so he can inhale the scent of this boy, like it is a thing his body _needs_ to do to survive. Maybe it does. Right now it does. And it won’t last forever, of course it won’t, but for now it is all he wants.  
  
‘And yet you feel so much. How can you be dead and feel so much?’  
  
‘Maybe it is because I am dead, that I feel so much,’ he says, but he knows it isn’t true.  
  
It is because he hasn’t allowed himself to feel at all, for long, long years that he feels it all right now, with his face in the hand of this remarkable creature. ‘Come with me,’ he whispers, even though he already knows the answer.  
  
‘I can’t.’  
  
‘I know.’ Eric bows his head but Merlin steps closer, into his vision, eyes as soft as dawn. Merlin’s thumb flicks over Eric’s cheek, beneath his left eye and to his surprise there is blood on it. Merlin brings the thumb to his mouth, hesitates as he stares at the red tear and then licks it. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘ _Oh_.’  
  
*  
  
Merlin’s head falls back in his neck and he puffs out a breath, a laugh. His hands come up and tangle in Eric’s hair. ‘That feels so- it feels so-'  
  
‘I know.’  
  
When his head snaps forward again, his eyes are bright, twinkling. ‘Is this what it is like, when you drink?’  
  
‘More, so much more Merlin.’ The boy's eyes flicker, eyelids heavy and Eric takes one of the hands away from his hair, brings the wrist to his mouth, licks it. The heat sears his tongue and he feels it pulse against him. Merlin stutters out a shuddering breath. He drops the wrist, puts his hands on the boys hips and pulls, bringing him closer. The hip bones are sharp, defined, the hollows above them shaped for Eric’s fingers.  
  
 _Am I not like your prince, Merlin? Am I not beautiful and powerful?  
  
Yes. But you are night and he is day. And I belong by his side.  
  
But I can love you. He can only command you.  
  
It is my destiny._  
  
He tugs again and Merlin sinks into his chest. His lips are parted and moist and Eric had wanted Merlin to come to him but he can’t help himself when Merlin’s tongue darts a little nervously over his lips. He moves, the need an all enveloping rush he can't stop. One hand on Merlin’s throat, so he can feel the life beating inside him, one in his hair, tilting his head so he can fit their mouths together perfectly and he follows the tongue where it disappeared.  
  
Merlin's mouth is hot and tastes of promise and regret.  
  
He knows he could take him and turn him by force, he could be so quick that even Merlin’s magic couldn’t save him. But he won’t, he knows he won’t. Because living without Merlin from now on will be bitter sweet, but he will have the memory. Living with his hatred would be unbearable.  
  
He pulls their mouths apart, runs his lips over Merlin’s jaw and down to his earlobe. Merlin obliges, tilting his head, exposing his neck. It is such a show of trust, it makes Eric feel human again, even if it is just for one moment.  
  
*  
  
Merlin knows what Arthur thinks of him. He doesn’t need to be able to read his mind for that. Arthur has always been incapable of hiding any kind of emotion that barges through him, at least from Merlin. He has always considered that a good thing. It means he can usually see fits of rage (accompanied by many a flying object) coming. Or feel the appreciation Arthur can’t really voice.  
  
He doesn’t think this insight is a good thing any longer.  
  
Arthur believes he hides it well. But the restrained movements, the set jaw, the not so straight in the eye looks couldn’t carry more meaning. And it breaks Merlin’s heart.  
  
*  
  
Merlin sits on his bed, chewing the inside of his bottom lip, knee jittering up and down. It is a ritual that lasts longer every morning. It also amounts to nothing every time, because he still needs to leave his room, he still needs to bring the prince breakfast and he still needs to put up with his jibes for being later and later.  
  
They attempt the same condescending mirth of his previous stabs at Merlin’s ineptitude, but the lightness that had made them bearable, even something to strive for before, is now gone.  
  
‘He will understand one day.’  
  
Merlin jumps before relaxing back down, elbows on knees. ‘There is nothing to understand,’ he tells Gaius. ‘Nothing happened.’  
  
‘Merlin, maybe-‘ Gaius sighs, his hand careful and bony on Merlin’s shoulder. ‘Maybe you should talk about it. If not to me, to someone. It can’t have been-, it must have been-.’  
  
‘I’m serious Gaius,’ Merlin stands. ‘Nothing happened.’  
  
‘But you- he took you-'  
  
‘I know he did, but Eric didn’t want me if I didn’t want him back.’ Merlin swallows, can still feel that kiss when he closes his eyes, can still feel Eric draw him in, the buzz of Eric’s blood deep and heavy in his veins. ‘He isn’t a monster,’ he says softly. ‘I need to go.’  
  
He drags out the walk to the kitchens and then the climb to the prince’s quarters for as long as he can. He briefly stares at the door, wonders how long Arthur will go on pretending, before sighing and pushing it open with one hand, the tray balanced precariously on the other. Arthur, he isn’t surprised to see, is already dressed and standing by the window. Arthur is always dressed these days when he arrives, and he knows it has nothing to do with him being tardy.  
  
‘Leave the breakfast on the table Merlin, I don’t need your services today.’  
  
Oh. So they are no longer pretending. ‘Are- are you sure? I thought, I mean, aren’t you going hunting today? And don’t you need your armor repairing? There is a nasty dent in the hauberk from-.’  
  
‘No. That’ll be all. Go.’  
  
 _He can only command you._  
  
The words ring clear and true in his mind and for a mad second he thinks Eric is in the room with them. But he knows he isn’t, it is just the aftermath of the bond they share. A bond created when Eric drank his blood and when he in turn, tasted the red tear. A bond already fading. The memory is still clear and etched in his mind, however. The lips and the coldness and the unguarded thought _I wish you were Arthur._  
  
The dismissal is final, and it hurts.  
  
*  
  
Arthur is staring at the closing door, fists clenched and jaws clamped so tight his teeth ache. He tells himself Merlin had only done what he had been told.  
  
He tells himself this before he opens his eyes in the morning. He tells himself this as he watches Merlin enter his room, later every day, searching for hunched shoulders or trembling hands or some, any, sign of regret or accusation. There never is one. He tells himself this, because he doesn’t want to think how easily Merlin had gone. How easily he had left Arthur behind.  
  
He makes sure he rises early to dress, because he cannot stand Merlin’s hands on him. He cannot stand watching the long fingers fumble with his cloak without imagining them on the Northman’s skin. When Merlin had entered his room the morning after- after it had happened, when he had pulled open the curtains and held out Arthur’s shirt, stepping closer so he could tie the laces, Arthur had imagined he could smell the Northman on him. He had wanted to grab Merlin by his thin wrists, he had wanted to shake him and yell _did you enjoy it? Did you like being fucked by a barbarian?_  
  
Of course he hadn’t. He had told Merlin to get his useless self lost. To fetch more firewood or something so he didn’t have to see the resigned expression in those large blue eyes.  
  
He cannot stand the thought that he had let Merlin go with Eric.  
  
With a last glance at the cooling breakfast, Arthur leaves his room.  
  
 _No,_ he tells Leon, _I will ride out alone today. Yes, alone. You do know the meaning of the word don’t you? It means me and no one else. I don’t give a rats arse what the King will have to say about that._  
  
*  
  
Eric watches from the trees as the prince rides back into the castle.  
  
It would be easy, to ambush him, make him disappear. The sorcerer would be his, then.  
  
Eventually.  
  
He would bide his time, he would let him hurt and he would be there to comfort. But he can see it. The burden of the destiny that rests on this young man’s shoulders. He can see how Arthur needs Merlin to take a place in the world that will resonate through time. So he waits, sinks back on his heels and thinks of the taste of Merlin’s skin on his tongue. He had done all he could to make the boy come willingly and the boy had resisted, even after the tasting of his blood.  
  
It had been hard for him. Eric knows what his blood does to humans. He had felt the boy harden against him, heard him gasp, felt the heat radiate from his pores and into Eric’s lungs. Tentative hands had wrapped around his waist, holding on tight and the shuddering breath against his temple had made him feel almost weak as they kneeled on the cold tiles of the bedroom floor together. He had seen clearly into Merlin’s mind, it being open and unguarded in the fog of lust. He had seen the boy imagine Eric’s lips on him, stretching around his cock, thinking of the contrast of his cool tongue against his hot skin.  
  
 _Merlin_ , Eric had breathed hoarsely, in warning and plea because he couldn’t help himself. The boy had flushed bright red, the pooling of blood around his neck and ears doing nothing to diminish Eric’s burning need. It had cost every ounce of willpower and then some to keep his fangs drawn in. And then the thought had slipped through, just when Merlin leaned in to capture Eric’s mouth.  
  
 _I wish you were Arthur._  
  
He hadn’t been able to hide he had heard it and the moment had been gone.  
  
 _Eric. At least let me love you this one night.  
  
No, Merlin.  
  
Why not?  
  
Because if I have this, if I have this one night of knowing what it could be like, knowing I will never have it again will only make it more unbearable._  
  
It is ridiculous really, that he can’t turn around. That he can’t move away and leave this place behind, not return until these lives have been long lived. He closes his eyes and inhales the air, thick with the scent of sunset.  
  
 _Oh Merlin, we could have been great. I could have made you perfect._  
  
He doesn’t move until the sun has disappeared, until the sky has changed from the colour of blood to darkness. Only then does he jump down soundlessly, to set off in the prince’s wake.  
  
*  
  
Arthur believes it is Merlin who steps out of the shadows and into his room. He is so tired and he misses his friend so much he begins to twist around to ask him _can we just forget about all this? Can you forgive me?_ He doesn’t have the chance to fully turn, however. A hand, so absurdly strong Arthur actually believes it might snap his bones, wraps around his shoulder and pushes him forward. It shoves him hard and face first against the cold stone beside the window. Arthur snarls, bucks and fights with all his might but he may as well be trapped between two walls.  
  
‘What do you want,’ he demands, out of breath, feeling a heavy, oddly cold body lean against him. ‘What more could you possibly want from me?’ Because he can’t see him, but he knows who it is that keeps him pressed against the wall, one arm trapped behind his back.  
  
‘The boy,’ Eric tells him, voice soft, lazy and far too close to his face.  
  
‘You already had him,’ Arthur hisses and he squeezes his eyes shut because the thought still tears through him like a hot dagger.  
  
‘No.’ Arthur frowns at the almost unnoticeable softening of the voice. ‘I let him go.’ Eric does the same to Arthur and he spins around, aims a blow at the Northman’s jaw but it is easily swatted aside. ‘Then why are you here?’  
  
‘I changed my mind,’ Eric smiles at him and Arthur feels a little bewildered. ‘I decided I want him after all. I want to trace the lines of his body with my fingers and my tongue. I want to feel him writhe beneath me as I fuck him slowly. I want to see his face burst in ecstasy when he comes undone under my touch. My touch Arthur. Not yours.’  
  
Arthur feels the anger burn in the pit of his stomach but it is dulled by- something. He shakes his head, once, slowly. There is an odd buzz behind his ears and-. Eric is looking at him, head tilted to the left as if listening for something only he can hear. ‘He will be here soon. Why don’t you sit down in the meantime?’  
  
Arthur wants to tell him _who the hell do you think you are? I am not-_ but only finds his feet are already moving toward the chair in the middle of the room. The next time he blinks, his hands are bound behind his back, shoulders stretched painfully taunt.  
  
They don’t have to wait long. The door bursts open after barely a minute of silence and Merlin comes flying through, Arthur’s name on his lips.  
  
‘Ah,’ is all Eric says, pushing himself away from the bedpost he was leaning against.  
  
‘Merlin!’ Arthur yells, fighting the ropes that bind him to the chair. ‘Merlin get out of here!’ But Merlin doesn’t move. Just looks from Eric to Arthur and back again, his face crumpling into something so tormented Arthur wants to rip himself away from his bounds and wrap Merlin in his arms. ‘Merlin please,’ he whispers.  
  
Merlin doesn’t run, he doesn’t even look frightened. In fact, now that he sees Arthur is all right, his thin frame relaxes a little and he closes the door with a soft snick.  
  
His eyes are on the Northman.  
  
*  
  
‘Why are you doing this?’ Merlin asks him and Arthur can see Eric smile out of the corner of his eye, even shrug, slightly. He can’t believe this. He can’t believe they are going to have a casual conversation as if Arthur isn’t sitting tied up to a chair in the middle of his own bedroom.  
  
‘I am helping you Merlin,’ Eric says.  
  
‘This is not helping,’ Merlin tells him and Arthur silently agrees, even though he hates, _hates_ how friendly, intimate almost, Merlin sounds when the talks to Eric.  
  
‘Don’t you see Merlin? When he knows, when he really knows who you are, you will be equals. And he will no longer feel like he is taking advantage of you.’  
  
Wait, what?  
  
Merlin looks from Eric to Arthur, his eyes softening a little in his still tortured face. ‘Is that what stopped you?’ he asks, but Arthur doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t fully understand-. ‘Oh Arthur,’ Merlin sighs and there is so much abandoned hope in that sounds it makes Arthur’s gut clench. ‘It is too late now.’  
  
No, Arthur wants to tell him. _It isn’t too late, I don’t care what it is, just don’t go with him. Don’t go._ But Merlin’s eyes are on Eric again.  
  
‘Don’t make me do this,’ he begs of the barbarian and there are unshed tears in his eyes.  
  
‘Merlin,’ Arthur snarls, having just about enough of this. ‘Just get out of here.’ But Merlin ignores him.  
  
‘Eric. I am warning you,’ Merlin whispers when the Northman takes a step closer to Arthur.  
  
‘Merlin are you _mad_?’ Arthur demands frantically, tugging on his ropes until his chair teeters dangerously, when Merlin takes a step closer too, as if he is about to fight this man. Is this even a man? Whatever he is, Arthur knows he could snap Merlin like a twig. No, not could, _will_. ‘Merlin, just- just save yourself, leave, now!’  
  
Eric’s fangs extend and Arthur yelps at the sight of them, eyes wide and mouth full of profanities when he sees Eric coming for him. He registers the sob that comes from Merlin’s direction but not much more until the Northman’s face changes from vicious intent to resigned acceptance, right before he is hurtled back and thrown into the wall by some invisible force.  
  
‘What?’ he mumbles, not understanding as he looks from the crumpled form to a tear stricken Merlin, arm stretched parallel to the floor, fingers splayed, eyes losing their golden- oh.  
  
 _Oh._  
  
*  
  
Arthur’s hands are on Merlin’s chest.  
  
Merlin’s eyes widen as they push and push, forcing him backwards through the entire length of the room. _This is where he kicks me out_ he thinks, _this is where he hands me over to the guards and I will spend my last night on this earth in a dungeon_. He is about to say something, anything _it’s all right, I understand, I will go, you don’t need to-_ , when his back collides roughly with the door and the air that was in his lungs is forced through his open mouth with a muffled 'umph'.  
  
He doesn’t have time to breathe in again because Arthur’s mouth is crashing against his and his tongue is pushing hot and slick against Merlin's bottom lip. It feels only natural and oh so right, for Merlin to part his lips further and suck that tongue into his mouth with a loud moan as he curls one leg around Arthur’s thigh. Arthur gets the message, hooks one hand beneath Merlin’s hitched up knee and shifts him higher so Merlin can wrap both his legs around Arthur’s hips and hold him close. His hands find their way into Arthur's hair and he tugs, gently, while licking over Arthur's teeth.  
  
 _Merlin_ , Arthur breathes into his mouth, pushing him hard against the door again, hips bucking. The wood presses a little painfully into his lower back, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t care. Relishes it because it tells him this is real.  
  
‘I want to do all those things,’ Arthur whispers against his mouth. Merlin can feel the tremor and the heat of the words on his lips. ‘I want to do all those things I imagined the barbarian doing to you. I want to feel you and taste you and wrap you around me, I want- everything. Finally. Oh Merlin, finally. You have no idea how long-.’  
  
Merlin tightens around Arthur, curls into him like he wants to take him up, envelop him and never let go. He wants to speak but his throat feels tight as if something is preventing the words from bubbling out. He doesn't mind though, because he knows they have time. There is time now, to talk, to explain, to be part of one another. Predestined. Equal.  
  
Merlin's eyes snap open at a sudden awareness and he sees Eric standing by the open window, his eyes dark and unreadable. _Thank you_ he thinks, but Eric’s mind is a wall and then Arthur’s mouth is on Merlin's earlobe drawing him into a world full of desperate, desperate need. When his eyes flutter open again, Eric is gone and Merlin’s mind has gone wild with the promises Arthur is whispering against his collarbone.  
  
[fin]

**Author's Note:**

> [Here at LJ.](http://rufflefeather.livejournal.com/16315.html)


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